Seven fifty on sunday morning and I'm pouring a vodka and tonic; I'm already looking forward to the next one ( I'll have to, it'll be in the future). This is not the end of an all night session nor a hangover remedy, in fact I was rehearsing with the band until ten, drove home, had a light supper, went to bed, slept soundly, got up to make coffee and poured a drink instead (what kind of a band is it when the only night that everyone is free to rehearse is a saturday? A pretty cool one maybe; cool people stay in all weekend and do the clubs on monday when the population of Croydon and Stevenage have had their night in Soho - but I stay at home during the week too.)
I'm sitting at the kitchen table tearing pieces off a cheese muffin while I sip my drink and read yesterdays Guardian, then I get to Stephanie Beacham's questionnaire:
What is your idea of perfect happiness?
Tea in hand, task completed, job well done
What is your favourite fantasy?
I don't have fantasies I have plans.
What is your greatest extravagance/
What would your motto be?
Good better best never let it rest till the good is better and the better best.
For fucks sake! Now I now why I'm drinking, it was a premonition, I'm fortifying myself against reading this shite. I feel like drinking the rest of the bottle but I also feel like puking . I decide to go back to bed and have another stab at getting up later in the day. It's still warm under the duvet and I soon fall asleep
To dream of a dead actress:
To see a dead actress, your good luck will be overwhelmed in violent and insubordinate misery. To see them wandering and penniless, foretells that your affairs will undergo a change from promise to threatenings of failure. To those enjoying domestic comforts, it is a warning of revolution and faithless vows bringing remorse after the glamour of pleasure has waned.
No change there then.
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